Hunter Hunted by Jack Gatland (best value ebook reader .TXT) 📗

Declan lay on the ground, sprawled across his father’s grave.

‘Do what you want,’ he replied, shutting his eyes. ‘I deserve it.’

Peter leaned over Declan, his face crunched up with anger, his eyes reddened with crying.

‘You were just a shag,’ he hissed. ‘Nothing more than a one-night stand. She loved me, Walsh. Me.’

He stood up, looking back to the service.

‘Pay your respects to my wife,’ he said. ‘It’s the only time you’re allowed to. I know people in this village, and they bloody hate you. They tell me everything, and if I hear you’ve visited her grave at all after that? I’ll kill you.’

Peter spat onto Declan, kicking him in the side one more time for good measure and then, turning around, he walked away from Declan without a backward glance.

Declan painfully climbed to his feet, noting that the exchange had been seen across the graveyard by two of the older residents of Hurley.

Bloody wonderful. As if I hadn’t fuelled enough gossip.

Dusting himself down and rubbing at his bruised chin, Declan slowly walked to the now empty graveside, staring down at the coffin that held Kendis Taylor.

‘I’m sorry,’ was all he could manage in a choked voice, forcing the returning tears back as he spoke. After a couple of moments of silent farewells, he eventually turned and walked out of the churchyard, away from Kendis and his father and back towards his house.

In the church car park there was a woman standing by a nondescript grey van, watching him quietly. In a long grey hoodie and a pair of jeans, she made no movement, no signal of communication, but had positioned herself so that he’d notice her. Recognising her, Declan turned, now walking towards the van.

‘Trix,’ he said as he stopped in front of the younger woman. ‘Third time in Hurley in a month? You’ll be renting a place next.’

‘I’m sorry for this, Declan,’ Trix replied. ‘For your loss and all that. But also for being here.’ She looked to the front of the van, as if looking to see if anyone on the High Street was watching; as usual for a sleepy village, they were alone. ‘I’ve been trying to sort your Wintergreen problem out.’

‘You have?’ Declan was surprised at this, and went to speak, but Trix looked back to him, raising a hand.

‘You’ve pissed a lot of people off in Whitehall, Declan. There’s a ton of people want you in a box for what you did to Rattlestone, including the bigwigs who control my department. It’s really hard to get your name in through any front doors, you know?’

‘No, I don’t know,’ Declan stared at the young woman, confused. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean what I said,’ Trix looked away again, as if ashamed. ‘I’m sorry for this. But orders are orders.’

Declan went to ask what she meant, to ask why she was being so cryptic, but as he did so he heard the scuff of a boot behind him and, before he could turn around to see who it was, a small black hood was thrown over his head, muffling him as his arms were grabbed from behind. Something was firmly placed over his nose and mouth; a damp cloth, stopping him from shouting as he struggled, a sickly sweet smell coming from it and through the hood that, as he was forced to breathe it in made his limbs feel heavier, slumping as the unconsciousness of sleep took him.

Looking around, Trix opened the side of the van as a man, dark-haired and in his late thirties bundled the unconscious Declan into the back of it, slamming the door shut and checking around one more time to see if this had been observed as he climbed into the driver’s seat, nodding silently to Trix as they drove off, south down the High Street, and out of Hurley…

Before LETTER FROM THE DEAD…

Before MURDER OF ANGELS…

Before HUNTER HUNTED…

There was

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Prologue

Craig Randall led a double life.

That’s what he told everyone that he spoke to; it made him sound like a secret agent, some kind of exciting, enigmatic hero rather than what he really was; a fifteen-year-old bully with a Walter Mitty fantasy.

Craig’s double life wasn’t fake though; it just wasn’t what you’d expect to see when asking someone about it. During the week, Craig was just a Year 10 loser, picked upon by the bigger, stupider kids in his year because he wasn’t a fan of the same football teams, a teenager who spent a lot of time on his own, and who didn’t have that many friends. He wasn’t that academic; he wasn’t that sporty. In fact, he wasn’t that… anything. If you looked up the words academically average in a school guidebook, you’d probably find a photo of Craig Randall smiling out at you. Or, at least scowling, annoyed that he was being made fun of again.

But on the weekends, oh yes, the weekends he was a God.

For Craig Randall spent his weekends somewhere else. Not in South East London like the other losers in his class, no; Craig and his family would spend every weekend from Easter until October at a camping and caravan park in Hurley Upon Thames.

It’d started when he was eight. His parents, sick of the street that they lived in and desperate to escape from the city, if only for a day or so borrowed a frame tent from a friend, and, with a minimum of camping equipment and experience had muddled their way to Hurley after seeing it mentioned in